


The Mystery of the Empty Coffin

by ThoseLittleGreyCells



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 11:12:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6954112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoseLittleGreyCells/pseuds/ThoseLittleGreyCells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two master detectives, one at the end of his career, the other his just beginning meet by chance in a Portsmouth back alley and work together to solve the Mystery of the Empty Coffin</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mystery of the Empty Coffin

As the summer sun began to drop behind the faded white fencing, the train slowly pulled into the station. A single door opened and a figure stepped out, temporarily engulfed in the steam pouring from the train’s engine. It took the man almost half a minute to drag his large wheeled suitcase from the carriage onto the station platform. As the smoke cleared, the man began to walk down the platform in the direction of the exit.

The man was short in stature, emphasised by a slight stoop as he dragged his luggage by a handle that would have been a real struggle for a taller man. Underneath a black bowler hat was a face weary of travel dominated by a large bushy, but manicured, moustache. The man grunted as he jerked the suitcase over a pothole.

He reached the ticket booth and approached the window. At the back of the small room beyond, the station master sat lazily in an armchair paying no heed to the traveller. The man cleared his throat noisily and waited a few minutes but there was still no response. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the wooden countertop. He cleared his throat again, louder this time but equally ineffectively.

“Excuse me, monsieur” he finally called out his accent thick but clearly enunciated.

The station master pushed himself out of the chair making a show of how inconvenient this interruption to his slumber was.

“Yes?” he answered tersely.  

“Could you, ah, call me a cab? I would like to get to my accommodation before nightfall” asked the foreigner. If he was frustrated by the other man’s behaviour he didn’t let it show in his voice.

“No, phone only to be used for official rail business. Can’t help you” was the response.

“Monsieur, I am sorry to be causing you trouble but I do not know this town and I only have the address to my hotel.”

“I have a map, you can take that. I’m sure you can find your way.” The man disappeared from the window briefly heading back into the depths of the office.

The traveller looked to the heavens as if seeking patience from above shaking his head vigorously.

“Here you go.”

The map was almost thrown in his face and the station master returned back to his armchair without another word. In the ten minutes that simple exchange had taken, the light had faded even further and the traveller struggled to read the map as he opened it out awkwardly. After a few minutes of peering at the map it was crumpled up back in his left hand whilst his right reluctantly regained its grasp on the handle of the suitcase and left the station.

***

Half an hour late the man found himself completely lost in a darkened alleyway. His face was flushed with exertion and there was a sheen of sweat on his face. The light was almost completely gone and the faint glow from the street lamps didn’t reach far into the narrow alley. The map was once again retrieved and spread out in front of his face. He didn’t see the other man at all before he’d tripped over him. He fell, head over heels across the crouched man and both fell onto the dusty ground.

He was barely even aware of the other man before he was rudely accosted.

“Ouf! What do you think you’re doing, you fool, you’re ruining the crime scene!” the other man rising to his feet, dusting his knees off with gloved hands.

He was tall and thin, almost awkwardly so wearing a green overcoat which seemed too thick for what had been a warm late Spring day. A thin, almost pointed nose looked down at him as a hand was extended. He took it gratefully and allowed himself to be dragged to his feet. The grip was stronger than he expected from such a slight figure.

“Je suis desolez, monsieur” he stammered dipping his head reverentially not wishing to incur any further wrath from the already, quite angry taller man.

The tall, thin man’s demeanour changed almost immediately as his brow furrowed.

“Ah, a Frenchman” he muttered as much to himself as any other.”

He shook his head, dislodging a lock of dark brown but greying hair from under his hat.

“No, no, not French, softer. Belgian then.” He nodded, satisfied with his conclusion.

The smaller man was shocked. He was not used to foreigners knowing the difference between the two countries let alone the accents. “H-how did you know?”

The other man smiled. “Simplement, mon ami” he replied in faultless French. “I speak a dozen languages and can read another dozen more. I make a habit of studying the accents of those from overseas. You are here escaping the war, I presume?”

This was indeed the case. What seemed like a lifetime ago now, the Belgian had stepped off a ferry at Dover having overnighted from Zeebruge.

The Belgian nodded his head. “Oui, I am too old to be drafted into the army but as a former police officer I might yet be asked to serve and, well...” he gestured at his person hoping that would suffice as an answer.

This response seemed to satisfy the other man, who had resumed his bent position as he studied the ground beneath them. He sighed heavily...

“Ruined” he said, again to himself and sighed again.

“Excusez-moi” enquired the Belgian hesitantly, his curiously overtaking his nervousness. “But can I ask you what you are looking for?”

“What?” the man asked brusquely without looking up. “Evidence.”

“Evidence of what, exactly?” the Belgian asked, either not noting the extra tension in the voice or simply ignoring it.

“Crime” was the one word answer.

This time, the Belgian crouched down at the floor. Retrieving a pair of small glasses from his jacket pocket he began to peer at the ground himself. After a few minutes the other man stood up and peered incredulously at him.

“What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

The Belgian stood up and smiled at the taller man. “You believe that something was placed here and then dragged somewhere. Perhaps to that door over there” He pointed to a small door barely three feet tall partially hidden from view by a large cast-iron drainpipe.

“What? How did you know that?” the man blustered for once his steely demeanour broken but genuinely intrigued.

“You see these drag marks here?” the Belgian said, pointing at the faint marks in the dirt. “They start here and head in a rough semi-circle towards that door.”

The other man paused briefly, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “But how do you know the item wasn’t dragged away from the doorway and then picked up here?”

“Ah, if that was the case, there would be a pile of dirt here at the end of the tracks as the item, a crate perhaps, created a sort of bow wave in front of it. This is not the case, so I can only surmise that the crate was pushed in the other direction.”

“Incredible” the tall man said. “You are very adept in matters of deduction.”

“Nonsense”, the Belgian replied, his courage rising rapidly, “it is simply a matter of exercising the little grey cells” he said pointing to his temple.

“Then you will, of course, be able to tell me what exactly was being dragged across the ground.”

With that, the tall man placed his arms on his hips and trained his gaze on the short Belgian man almost seeming to challenge him to get it wrong.

The Belgian paused for a moment and then bent down to peer at the ground again. He ran a gloved hand across the floor near where he had originally pointed out the track marks. After what seemed like an age he returned to face his challenger.

“Oui, but of course. It was a coffin.” He smiled, a glint in his eye.

An array of emotions passed swiftly across the face of the other man as he fought to not express his surprise and not a little admiration.

The other man smiled and extended a hand.

The Belgian took the offered hand in his and shook it vigorously. “Monsieur Hercule Poirot” he replied with a nod of his head.

The other man replied with a smile, “Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
